So, growing up with a brother who’s eight years older than me has been quite a challenge. Anyone who has an older sibling knows how annoying they are (well, my brother’s got every right to start his own blog and complain about younger siblings!) and having someone eight years older, well, it’s confusing for both parties involved.
For one, I always grew up thinking my brother knew everything. Which is why I believed him when he told me that it was Dev Anand’s ghost that acted in colour movies and that Dev Anand was actually dead. I believed him when he told me about an evil ghost called the Lachigu (how did he ever think up that name?) that lurked inside one of my dolls. I also believed him when he told me that my mom had authorized him to inspect all my school books. And he’s the one who taught me how to hide a comic book inside my text book and pretend to be studying. Of course, he’s the one who later sold me out when I tried that trick. I had my revenge. The best thing about being eight years younger than your brother is that you can hit him. And then cry. And have mom scold him for not having more sense. See what I mean? I was quite a monster too.
But when I was in Class 6, he left for college and we’ve never been together for more than a few weeks since. Which naturally means that in his mind, I’m frozen in time as the annoying eleven year old and he’s frozen in my mind as the annoying seventeen year old (with a mustache, no less). It doesn’t matter that he’s now a clean shaven dad and that I’m a married woman. We just refuse to accept that the other person’s grown up and has a tad more sense than they did fifteen years ago. And we’re both thoroughly convinced that we have nothing in common. What? Me? Like that annoying brat? We both like to think.
Of course, that notion is hard to hold on to when our parents are visiting. Pack your lunch box at night with leftovers from dinner? Well, your brother does that too. Recycle? Your brother does that too. Buy organic milk but not organic vegetables? Hate cabbage? Possessive about your stuff? Declare that this is “your house”? Quote the dramatic dialogues that your parents used to keep you in line years and years ago back to them with unnerving precision? You guessed it, the other person does that too. To our parents, we’re more alike than different.Yet when my brother and I talk to each other, we’re convinced that we’ll never see eye to eye.
Perhaps that’s the way it is with siblings. With all our notions of independence and uniqueness, it’s hard to accept that there’s another person who thinks more or less the same way as you. You share 50% of your genes with this person. And it shows. From the way you wash rice to the way you yell at your parents for not taking enough care of themselves. The genes never lie. And that’s perhaps the reason you can fight as much as you like with your siblings and still know that when you screw up, they’ll still be the first to help. And when some idiot hits your car and you turn to them for advice, they’ll have the sense to not worry your parents by telling them.
No wonder we Indians seem to believe that the only child is a lonely child…
